RAIN

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Before the taxi had gone two blocks, Grissom spotted a squad car heading into the station. Its lights were flashing but the siren was off. Grissom peered into the dimness of the backseat. There was Sara.

"Stop! Turn around!" he shouted to the driver. "Follow that police car."

The driver complied, turning into a driveway and backing out. Grissom threw some cash in his direction and jumped out as the cab was still moving, stumbling but staying on his feet.

Sara was being roughly pulled out, struggling and screaming. Her face was white, grimacing with fear, dirty, tear-streaked. Her blouse was torn and a cup of her white bra and bra strap were visible.

"NO! Let me go! PLEASE NO!" over and over.

"Shut up, lady. I've had enough!" The cop looked angry and disheveled. He gripped her by the arm and half-pushed, half-dragged her.

"Wait! Stop!" Grissom bellowed, running toward them. The police just saw a strange man barreling at them and moved to intercept. A second cop barred his way, a thick arm across his chest. "Who the hell are you?" he demanded.

No time to explain. Sara was being pulled toward the entrance.

"SARA!"

"GRISSOM! Help me!"

"SARA! Don't fight! I'll help you!" Everyone was yelling. There was a scrum of people pushing and grabbing each other, arms flailing. No one was listening.

The cop swung the glass door open and thrust her inside. The door slid shut behind them.

Grissom was still firmly in the grasp of the uniform.

"So, you know this nutcase? How?"

"I work with her!!" Gris yelled desperately. "Don't put her in a cell! Let me talk to her!"

"You better come inside too, buddy." Grissom's elbows were grasped and he was pushed inside to the same waiting room, still grappling.

"You don't understand!"

"Calm down."

"Let me explain, damn it."

"Sir, if you don't stop...Now wait here." Grissom was pushed toward a seat. Three people stood in line at the desk sergeant's counter. He could hear Sara's diminishing cries down the hallway. A yell of pain, and then...silence.

Grissom shoved his way through the small crowd, yelling, "What have you done with her? Where is she?"

"Name?" Sgt. O'Keefe said deliberately, smirking, pretending to have never seen him before.

Grissom clenched his hands and thrust them in his pockets to stop himself from strangling this oaf.

"You know who I am! Where's Sara?"

"Who?"

"The woman that was just brought in..."

"Why don't you have a seat. We'll get to you..." O'Keefe gestured and waved over another man.

Gris was just about to explode. A tug on his sleeve diverted his attention.

"Mister?"

Grissom looked down. A small boy, his skin the color of chocolate milk, with hair shaved so close to his head that it emphasized the near-perfect roundness of his skull.

"Mister?" the boy said again. "You're bleeding."

"I...am?"

"Your mouth?"

"Take the gentleman to the men's room, Franklin," said a large dark-skinned woman sitting in a plastic chair with a bag at her feet.

'Yes'm." Franklin took his hand without another word. Grissom, dazed, let himself be led away, realizing that he was in danger of being arrested himself. He examined himself in the mirror, and began to understand what the police saw. He looked like a madman. He barely remembered the elbow to the mouth that bloodied his lip, but the blood had smeared across his cheek, his hair was mussed, clothing rumpled, dirty, and smelly. Franklin perched on a sink and watched as Gris stripped to the waist, washed and dried his chest and armpits with a paper towel, washed the blood from his face, stopped the bleeding with a bit of toilet paper, and wet down his hair. He didn't ask any questions, and for that Grissom was grateful. The boy told him about his grandmother and that his mom was in trouble and they were here to visit her. Grissom threw away his undershirt and smiled at the boy.

"Better?"

"Much better," the boy grinned.

They returned to the waiting room.

The grandmother patted the seat next to her and Gil sat down.

"It don't do no good to yell at the cops," she told him.

"You're right, ma'am. Thank you. Your grandson is a fine boy. Very polite."

"He is," she said proudly. "I think manners are important."

"Very important. I'm Gil."

"Martha." They shook hands. "Now if you're looking for good manners in this place, you won't find them." They chuckled. "All a body can do is be patient and courteous and eventually they will treat you the same."

"Do unto others."

"Exactly." Martha smiled in satisfaction. They sat quietly, neither asking difficult questions of the other. It was deeply painful to have had to reveal so much of his private life to these men, only to be met with indifference and sarcasm. If Sara's arrested...she can never work in law enforcement again. If I'm arrested, the same, and then we're both trapped here. Grissom felt his mind calm and blood pressure drop with the chance to rethink his situation. Martha and Franklin were called and he thanked them sincerely.

"We didn't do anything," she protested.

"You did. Believe me. I wish you the best with your troubles."

"And you with yours."

"Next."

"I'm Dr. Gil Grissom of the LVPD Crime Lab." He struggled to keep his voice steady. "That is CSI 3 Sara Sidle."

"You're a long way from home, Dr."

"I demand professional courtesy. If Captain Jim Brass were here, he would never allow such treatment of fellow law enforcement..." Brass!

Grissom pulled out his cell phone and walked to a quiet corner.

"Jim! Thank God. I need your help."

"What's wrong, Gil?"

"Sara's been arrested."

Brass was shocked. "What!"

"She had some sort of breakdown. She called me and was angry, nearly incoherent...I flew out this morning and she confronted me outside the mental health center," Gil explained in a rush. "She was enraged, yelling, I've never seen her like this before...a security guard tried to stop her and she ran off. Then the SFPD showed up...drove me around but they got another call. I texted Sara and she said the cops were there, before I could find her they brought her in. She's scared, screaming...they separated us...won't tell me anything..."

"Don't worry, I'll get this sorted out. I'll call the top dog and work my way down. Or I'll fly out myself and kick some ass."

"Thanks..."

"Hey...don't thank me yet...you owe me, Gil."

"I do."

"I'll call you back."

TBC